


Interpolation

by Bitenomnom



Series: Mathematical Proof [42]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Birthday Sex, Kissing, M/M, Mathematics, Sherlock's Birthday, from the point of view of various body parts and inanimate objects, someone set the flat on fire, sort of kind of more or less, the least explicit sex ever, underappreciated birthday cakes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-21
Updated: 2012-11-21
Packaged: 2017-11-19 04:36:08
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 809
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/569158
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bitenomnom/pseuds/Bitenomnom
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One set of toes wriggled against the floor, gripping at the newly replaced tile in the kitchen of 221B. It was newly replaced not because of one of an experiment, but rather because John seemed to have found a new and creative way of lighting candles that involved accidentally dropping the match onto Sherlock’s highly flammable chemicals placed precariously at the edge of the table, and John’s clumsiness with matches was hardly Sherlock’s fault.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Interpolation

**Author's Note:**

> Need to note that I have Wednesday and Thursday off, so the next drabble will occur on Monday. (I have a huge presentation the day after that, so we’ll see how long that day’s drabble will be…may have to try doing a 100-word one, ha.) However, it is my sincerest hope that in the meantime I will be able to finish up and post the next chapter of The Case of the Moebius Trip. (Fingers crossed!)

When generating a polynomial to approximate a function based on a series of points, one’s goal is to find a polynomial of the lowest degree such that the polynomial goes through some certain points, called the interpolation points. We also need to consider how the polynomial will approximate the function at other points, though! This is done by estimating the interpolation error. (Let me know if you’re interested in seeing the actual function, I’m just too lazy to type it out here.) One way to minimize the error is to carefully select the interpolation points. (Look up the Chebyshev polynomials if you’re interested! Neat stuff!)

 

***  
  
            One set of toes wriggled against the floor, gripping at the newly replaced tile in the kitchen of 221B. It was newly replaced not because of one of an experiment, but rather because John seemed to have found a new and creative way of lighting candles that involved accidentally dropping the match onto Sherlock’s highly flammable chemicals placed precariously at the edge of the table, and John’s clumsiness with matches was hardly Sherlock’s fault. (Nor, Sherlock thought, toes digging deeper as he struggled to memorize the exact texture of the linoleum, was it his fault that John decided to get out the matches in the first place, or get out the candles in the first place, or bake a cake in the first place, or bother finding out when Sherlock’s birthday was, for that matter.)

            The left foot shifted slightly, turning outward as it bore more of his weight. Then, the right took that position, and the left was left posed more gingerly against the tile.

            A second pair of feet, these in socks, stepped closer, and closer, until they paused just short scooting in between the other feet. The socks slipped slightly against the new linoleum flooring, carefully compensating for its new texture as they balanced a body above them. (Bloody Sherlock, John thought, curling his toes to test the friction of the floor. John had _said_ no flammables on the kitchen table last night, but had Sherlock listened? Of course not. John had said he had something different planned. Had Sherlock listened? Of course not. John had come home to Sherlock working an experiment and brashly assumed that he had heard at least a single word of John’s earlier request, maybe even deduced the reasoning behind it. But no, Sherlock Bloody Holmes was oblivious to things like calendars, which would have told him quite clearly that yesterday was January the sixth.)

            The left foot shuffled forward slightly, and then the right, and then the heels lifted off the ground.

 

 

            One pair of hips, the first pair of hips, leaned back until it pressed into the table. Another pair of hips, the second, pressed up against the first, slowly and tentatively and then firmly, and then even more firmly.

 

 

            One right arm jerked forward, and its elbow jabbed into a pair of ribs opposite. Another right arm scrambled desperately for the kitchen faucet. A left arm corresponding to the first swatted at flames.

 

 

            “Ah, _fuck_!” said one pair of lips.

            “Quickly!” said another, and then, “You’ve ruined my shirt!”

            “ _I’ve_ ruined it?” inquired the first. “I’m not the one who…”

 

 

            Shoulders were suddenly bared of one blue dress shirt. The burn marks hadn’t quite made it up to the shoulders. (He could, in theory, wear it under a suit jacket. Or he could throw it away and replace it. That would probably be more reasonable.) A second pair of shoulders hovered hesitantly a few paces away, before they were grabbed by hands and pulled close. A second pair of hands grabbed the first pair of shoulders and steered them toward the refrigerator, presumably a safer surface.

 

 

            One pair of lips felt heat and moisture and urgency pressed up against it; another pair of lips felt the same.

 

 

            “Table,” heard one ear.

            “But it’s got…” heard another.

 

 

            One replacement cake crashed off the table after being very abruptly swatted by one right hand. Its candles hit nothing flammable this time, and burned out rather harmlessly.

 

 

            “Happy birthday,” uttered one tongue.

            The other tongue paused its flitting. “My birthday was yesterday,” it said, “when you set the flat on fire trying to light the first cake.”

            The first tongue countered with a minor assault on the second.

            “Don’t look at me like that,” said the second tongue, “it was a very thoughtful gift.”

            “Then maybe I’ll take my _real_ gift back,” said the first.

            “Don’t be stupid,” the second barely managed to articulate whilst licking old shoulder scarring. “No one will accept a return that’s covered in bite marks.”

            “What?” said the first tongue, and the second tongue made way for a set of teeth on the same scarred skin.

 

 

            The table creaked beneath weight and movement; its feet dug into the new linoleum floor.


End file.
